The Voice of Many

We saw the signs; we heard the chime,

The age unraveling in its time.

Yet we ran, heads high, through crimson rain,

Believing our wits could erase the stain.

Too clever, we thought, to face our dread,

Too wise to mourn the lives we’d shed.

We sang of reason, we played the tune,

Drowning the truth beneath our rune.

The light pursued, its gaze unkind,

So we buried the spark, blinded our mind.

What’s right? What’s wrong?—who cares to say?

The flight was all that mattered today.

With heads detached, in hand we held,

Brushes of logic where visions swelled.

“We’ll paint a world,” we proudly cried,

“Our truth, our rules—no need to hide!”

But Shadow lingered, soft yet stark,

Maturing slowly in the dark.

Its icy touch, when it found its way,

Would mark the hour we’d all obey.

We tried to run, to mask, to defy,

But could not escape the endless sky.

For the weight we bore, the truths we skewed,

Became the chains that Shadow renewed.

And here we stand, though the fight was grand,

Aware of the grip of that icy hand.

In our pride, we never knew—

We shaped the chasm we stumbled through.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)